A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned.
And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing–last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time… I hope it’s Granger.
“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”
Get to that Snitch before Malfoy or die trying, Harry, because we’ve got to win today, we’ve got to.
Harry had never told Ron and Hermione that the Sorting Hat had seriously considered putting him in Slytherin. He could remember, as though it was yesterday, the small voice that had spoken in his ear when he’d placed the hat on his head a year before: You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that…
D’you think I don’t know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moaning, moping Myrtle!
“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born–you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards–like Malfoy’s family–who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure-blood.”
“Why,” demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, “have you outlined all Lockhart’s lessons in little hearts?”
Harry could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his glasses on his nose, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.
Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.